Fulfillment
by HDUC
Summary: Two people with serious issues make a connection, find closure and perhaps love?  Good for fans of Ten/Martha.
1. Chapter 1

**This is different from most of my postings. It started out as one of my usual smutty one-shots, and grew into a monster. So, here's installment 1.**

**It's a Law & Order UK / Doctor Who crossover - not sure how it will go over! Hope you enjoy it!**

**Please note: it's a continuation of the story, "Fantasy," which is also a crossover, and reading it might help to make more sense of this story. But it's up to you, as always. :-)**

* * *

PART 1

"You miss her," the Doctor could hear in the corners of his mind. "You miss them all. It's okay to miss them. I miss them too."

The Doctor smiled. Really, he smirked at the interesting non-comprehension of his most trusted companion. The TARDIS was his best friend, and sometimes the console room was the most tranquil place in the universe, and where he and his beloved vessel both did their best thinking. Sometimes it was just noisy. This time was one of the latter. But it had nothing to do with the TARDIS' gears, in fact, she was currently parked.

The sentient ship was sensing a certain agitation in her kindred Time Lord partner, a restlessness pulling him one way, attachment pulling him another. It might have seemed as though he was quite a confused man, but indeed he was not. His attachment made him restless. He was unable to settle down because there was nothing to hold onto, and yet he was holding on to everything – or trying to.

At their very core, at the deepest of levels, that could not be denied nor buried under his bluster, the Doctor and his ship were both children of the greatest civilization the universe had ever known. Time and space turned and pulsed within their minds as a whole, and they had been part of a chain, part of a network of the most grandiose thinkers in existence. It was like a psychic Mandala that spanned all of creation. Yes, the Doctor was a rebel, but he was a Time Lord first, and he had chosen his TARDIS and never looked back. And then the Time Lords were destroyed, and she and the Doctor were left hanging, like cables ripped from the wall with their stringy copper guts hanging out. Nothing to connect to anymore, only each other.

The TARDIS mourned, but the Doctor suffered worse. She, a more or less disembodied mind and soul, was content to share her psychic existence with the only being in the universe who had ever really mattered to her anyhow. But he, a fully corporeal being, was not so lucky; his needs were more complicated. He had hands that craved warmth and proof of another physical presence. He had eyes that craved the gaze of other eyes, and ears that soothed his spirit by relaying to him the voices of those who spoke in words.

As such, she had come to understand as she and the Doctor pulled further and further away from the Time War, and as the sting grew duller and duller, that the greatest pain in his life was not simple isolation. It was being without. It was a keen sort of absence, a longing that was highly specific. For, companionship isn't just about other bodies, eyes and voices. It's far, far deeper. Companionship leaves prints, echoes.

For some time, the TARDIS had been sensing the echoes of Rose inside the Doctor's mind. He had connected with Rose, related to her differently than with any other traveller he'd taken on. It was an echo quite foreign to the TARDIS when Rose was lost. The Doctor's sorrow took a different tone, the absence was a different shape, and the Doctor was never the same again.

Once Martha came along, those echoes would dissipate for long intervals. But then, without warning, they would return at full force, hotter and more violent than before, almost as if Martha's presence made the echoes louder, made the Doctor's longing worse. When she left, after hearing plenty of those echoes herself, the echoes of Martha ricocheted within him for a time. It was even more of a foreign language to the TARDIS, the Doctor being pulled in so many directions. Love, loss, guilt, the sense of time wasted, of a life interrupted and ruined.

And the Doctor was feeling their absence, that highly specific absence, today. Her heart ached when his did, so she tried to reassure him that missing his precious companions was normal and understandable, and that he was not alone in this.

And that's what made the console room so loud.

* * *

All of the TARDIS' understandings and musings linked and swirled in his head like clouds of light and realization. Her reassurances were bouncing around in his brain, and solace was solace, all the more effective since she was part of him. She knew just how to make the psychic debris push to the side for a while, so that he could see clearly.

But the absence he was feeling today was not of a psychic nature. There had always been a part of his existence that the TARDIS could never touch – literally. It was his physical being. She understood _that _he had certain needs, even knew what some of them were, but she could not empathise, nor sense them when the needs arose. She had never felt hunger or thirst. She had never longed to be held or to hold someone, had never been cold or hot or in pain. All of her needs and desires and chagrins were abstract, and had to do with the turn of the universe, and psychic energy from the Doctor himself.

Therefore, of course, she could not fathom what he was feeling now. Far from love or regret, the echoes oscillating through his being at the moment were entirely physical.

This one corner of his mind was all his own, and he needed to sort through it, needed to get some peace and quiet. He had a bit of an errand to run anyway, so he left the noisy console room and stepped out into a cold, grey English afternoon in March. He walked away from the TARDIS and detached as much as he ever did, and felt free to be as physical, lonely, and physically lonely, as he wanted.

* * *

He was in London on business again, and felt like a sailor coming into port. His mind wandered back several months to the assignment that UNIT had asked him to accept, which had led him into the capable hands and bed of the lovely Belle de Jour. Lovely, and vaguely frightening. Her physical resemblance to Rose made his entire world reverberate like the universe's largest gong for a few days, until he regained his senses and worked out the energy leak which happened to be coming from her flat. He had played out some of his deeply-held, Rose-related fantasies with her, and had felt liberated by it. How convenient that she should be the type of woman who allows men to play out their fantasies with her, for a fee. Not that he was judging. He was glad for it.

And blimey, was he sorely tempted ring her up now. His body was tight and on-edge, and he needed… well, something that the TARDIS, in her near-infinite wisdom, would never understand.

A montage of memories assaulted his senses; Belle's lips wrapped around him, sliding over and back, her eyes drifting closed for the pleasure he was giving her, her thighs parting as she begged him to take her. He felt the warmth of her mouth, her sex, her body pressing against his, the sound of her voice, such a familiar voice, saying filthy things to him. Much as it was at the time, he couldn't stop now. His mind was out of his control. He couldn't turn off the images, the succession of heat and pleasure that led to…

He stopped and faced the river, gripping the concrete barrier. His knees buckled and his vision blurred. The moment when he'd come with Belle, looked into those familiar eyes and just let go, gave himself up and released into her body… he'd been unprepared for the power of that memory. He bent at the waist and buried his head in his hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Fortunately, London was a place where depressed people from all walks of life frequented the edge of the raging river, so no-one stopped, nor even thought twice about his distress.

Until now, he hadn't fully realised how potent an experience that had been. Yes, Belle was a professional, so of course the sex was fantastic. All three times, in fact, were Earth-shattering. But the cleansing of his soul, the lingering desires, the lust-soaked regret that had plagued him up until that point, those were things not so easily dealt with. Belle had helped him resolve some of his Rose issues, scratched an itch that he had been too daft to ask Rose herself to scratch when he'd had the chance.

But that memory was just a memory, and he felt he'd moved on, thanks to Belle. It was just fuelling today's ardour. As it stood today, things were much simpler. Today, the itch had nothing to do with Rose. He reckoned he just needed to get laid, plain and simple.

_Just ring her. It's perfect. She's a sure thing, and she won't care if you disappear from the face of the planet and never call again. And if you're going to have a shag, it might as well be with someone whose face and form you appreciate._

_No, no, no, what's wrong with you? She's a prostitute, and you're not _that guy_. Just go out and meet someone. You're a good-looking bloke, won't be that hard. Human relationships have changed a lot, not all women expect a commitment…_

"Ugh, get ahold of yourself, mate," he said out loud to himself, standing up straight and pulling his right hand down over his face. "No time for this!"

He hurried up the embankment toward the agreed-upon meeting place. He had spoken to two different coppers on the phone, one of them sounded younger, probably late twenties or early thirties. The other sounded a bit older. No-one was certain which of them would be meeting him at Stella's Café just off the embankment, so the Doctor made a deal with himself. If the younger one was there, he'd venture out into the world, and act like a young single guy for an evening, find his own fun. If the older one was there, he'd take it as a sign that he needed to grow up and learn how to control his nine-hundred-year-old libido. He honestly wasn't sure which one he wanted.

* * *

The man in the charcoal grey coat finished his last sip of tea and went back over his notes. It was a quarter past four, and all he hoped was that this meeting wouldn't take long. He hoped this John Smith character didn't have a long, elaborate story to tell, and a lot of witnesses and locales and dates to check out. He knew that it was best to get all that rubbish done immediately, before the week-end, and he just wasn't in the mood. It had been a hell of a week. He was meeting up with some of the boys later on, and all he wanted to do was knock off and get home to change clothes.

Smith had given him a description of himself and said what he'd be wearing, so that no matter who went to meet him, he'd be recognisable. Six-foot-one, slim, dark hair, tan coat, brown pin-striped suit, always trainers, never dress shoes. Should be easy enough to spot in a café with four other people in it, all of them female and over the age of seventy.

* * *

When the Doctor entered the café, the man in a charcoal grey coat walked up and offered his hand. "Mr. Smith?"

"Yes," the Doctor responded, shaking the man's hand. He was, the Doctor guessed, around thirty years old. He sighed inwardly, and re-examined distractedly within how badly he really needed that itch scratched and how much venturing out he really wanted to do…

"I'm Detective Sergeant Devlin," he said. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"Agh, no problem," the Doctor said. The two men sat across from one another.

Devlin took a pen from his pocket, and found a clean sheet on his notepad. "Okay, so…" he began. "I guess I'll just jump in… tell me what you know."

"Franklin didn't do it," the Doctor said.

"So you said on the phone," Devlin responded. "What we need to work out is how you know that."

"I was there," the Doctor told him. "I saw it happen."

"You were there? You… wait, you're an eye-witness?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't Carlson see you?"

The real answer was that he was standing near enough to the TARDIS at the time that the perception filter encompassed him, but he didn't tell DS Devlin as much. Instead, he said, "The man was tied hands-to-feet with a gun to his head, and he'd just seen his best friend thrown over the side of a building. I think he had a thing or two on his mind."

"What were you doing there?" Devlin asked.

"I was in the building doing some business. You know, it's a bank," he shrugged. "I heard noises, sounded like someone was in trouble, so I went up to investigate. When I got there, Franklin was holding a gun to Carlson's head, and Gentry was screaming bloody murder at Fenwick."

"What was he screaming?"

"I couldn't tell. All I know is that within five seconds, he had Fenwick by the lapels, and was hauling him over the side of the building. I didn't step in because I reckoned it was too late. I was scared so I ran."

In reality, Gentry had galactic affiliations and was on a short list of Awlerhalk associates on Earth who were gunning for the Doctor. Alerting the Awlerhalk fleet to the Time Lord's presence could have caused an intergalactic incident, with Earth as the main target. Why risk stepping into this fairly rudimentary organised-crime incident when the British justice system had plenty in the way of intervention for this sort of thing? All he had to do was alert the authorities…

"So you're saying Gentry did it? In spite of the fact that Franklin has confessed."

"Yes," the Doctor said.

"Why would Franklin confess?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's scared of Gentry. Maybe he feels responsible. Maybe he's had a neural inhibition procedure and his memory has been changed to reflect an alternate, false reality."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. Too much _X-Files_," the Doctor shrugged. "Got to stop that."

"So then, why did the forensics team say that it was Franklin's fingerprints on Fenwick's buttons, and Franklin's skin cells on his clothing?"

"You're asking the wrong questions, Detective Sergeant," the Doctor advised. "You should be wondering why _didn't_ they say that it was Gentry's prints and skin cells?"

"Are you suggesting that police forensics is accepting bribes?" One of Devlin's eyebrows twitched.

"What? No. No, I'm saying, why was there no evidence that Gentry had touched him? I suspect if you can work that out, follow a few leads there, you'll find the evidence you need to arrest him, and probably convict."

"What about you? You're an eye-witness, that'll go a long way toward convincing a jury, especially if you can produce your bank statements…"

"I'm not giving evidence," the Doctor said.

Devlin was nonplussed. "Why not? Don't you care that an innocent man might go to prison – well, not an _innocent _man, but a man not guilty of murder, anyway – and an _actual_ murderer might go free?"

"Yes, I care," the Doctor assured him. "That's why I've put this bug in your ear. And now that you know what you're looking for, you'll be able to find it. But I'm not giving evidence. You don't even have to tell anyone you had a source; just say it was a hunch. Won't your partner back you up?"

"Give me one good reason why you won't appear in court."

The Doctor sighed. "Well, strictly speaking, I don't exist."

"What are you on about?"

"Just trust me," the Doctor said. "Trying to force me into a courtroom will only cause more problems for you. I am… an anomaly. I have no identity."

"What are you, in deep cover?"

"Something like that."

"Is it military?" Devlin wondered.

The Doctor thought about this. If all else failed, he could get UNIT to back up his story. "Yes."

Devlin sighed. "Fine," he said. "Will you at least speak to the CPS? They're the ones going after Franklin. If we're going to ask them to change gears, they're going to need a jolly good explanation as to why."

"I'd rather not," the Doctor responded, averting his eyes. "The fewer people…"

"Please, it's the CPS," Devlin said. "Crown Prosecution Service? It's not like they keep an internet blog of all of their dealings, Mr. Smith. They will guarantee total discretion, it's what they do! I can put you in touch with James Steele, we work with him all the time, and he never reveals a source. Neither do I, and neither does my partner."

The Doctor bored holes into Devlin's forehead. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Well, if nothing else," Devlin sighed. "I'm in over my head, I think. This sort of thing is going to require some manoeuvring, and I'm more of a bulldozer sort of bloke."

"Fine," the Doctor said. "But it has to be tomorrow, and no later. I can't stick around."

Devlin opened his phone and dialled. "We'll do our best for you."

* * *

Five minutes later, the Doctor had an appointment for Monday morning at nine, with James Steele, and he and DS Devlin were leaving Stella's Café together. As it happened, they both turned right, and found themselves in stride abreast of one another.

Devlin looked at the Doctor and smirked. "Where are you headed now, at half-past four? I expect you'll want to blow off some steam, guy like you."

_Ah yes, he thinks I'm in covert ops or something. Never mind – fair cop. He's right. I do need to blow off some steam._

"Yeah," the Doctor responded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not sure how yet, though. It's been a while since I've been out in the world quite so."

"I'd imagine," Devlin chuckled. "Not much time for a night life?"

"Nope," the Doctor told him.

"Work obligations," he said, nodding his head. "I get it. I mean, you wouldn't think so, but I work some wicked hours at times."

"I know you do," the Doctor said. "This city owes you, DS Devlin."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," he answered. They walked a few more feet, then the detective asked, "So is it just work, or have you got a family?"

"Oh, no family to speak of," the Doctor told him. "Just..." He trailed off.

"What? A girlfriend?"

"Well, no. Not really." His tone was halting, self-conscious. He had meant to say "just a companion from time to time," but stopped because it made him sound like a travelling salesman or a gigolo. Also, the image that had popped into his brain when he thought about commitments and companions had surprised him, given him pause.

_Whoa. Hadn't seen that coming._

"Ah," Devlin said, nodding once more, knowingly. "Bad break-up. I can always tell from the tone. I'm a detective, you know."

The Doctor examined his face, and he was smiling in a self-deprecating way. Devlin was joking, but the Doctor reckoned he was right on the money.

_Well, clearly Martha and I are more complicated than just a bad break-up but I've still got to give the detective his due..._

_Wait. Martha? Well, there she is again. Hunh._

The Doctor nodded back. "And a mightily good detective, at that."

"Well, seeing as how you don't exist, and I have palmed you off onto the CPS," Devlin said. "Some mates and I are meeting up at King's Head for darts, maybe some prowling. It's a free country – can't fault you for stopping in for a pint and saying hello."

The Doctor stopped and smiled at Devlin. "Thanks," he said.

* * *

When the Doctor entered the King's Head, Devlin was seated at a small square table looking forlorn. He looked up, however, and smiled, and waved the Doctor over. The Time Lord took his place at a rickety wooden table in a tavern, across from a human nursing a pint and rubbing his eyes. It felt right somehow, inexplicably.

"Hi. Why the long face?" asked the Doctor, shedding his coat and being seated.

"Lost the first round to Rumplestiltskin," Devlin told him, indicating the group of guys playing darts. "He's rubbish at this, and he beat me."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"Well, his name is Roland Stills," Devlin said. "But we call him..."

"Got it."

"It's 'cause he's short. And a bit creepy. So, what do you drink? Why don't you go on up and grab something then we can put you into the dart matrix."

"Nah," the Doctor protested. "That's now how I blow off steam."

"Well, if it's... you know, _that other thing_ you're looking for... this lot, they're going to Mercury's later," Devlin told him, referring to the group of young men. "Why don't you go?"

"What's Mercury's?"

"It's a club," he said. "See, the idea is that you come here to get loaded and loose, then you go on the pull at Mercury's. It's a chuffing good plan. The ladies do the same thing, except they have their own pub that they go to beforehand."

"Classy," the Doctor commented, smiling, nodding.

Devlin chuckled. "I know, but we all need a bit of lubrication."

"Does it work?"

"Meh," Devlin said. "Eighty to ninety per cent. I suppose I've taken a few lovelies home from there."

Something in Devlin's demeanour didn't sit well with the Doctor, though. "Meh?" he asked.

"Well, it's fun for a while, isn't it?" he explained. "But once you get that ache..."

"That ache?" asked the Doctor.

"Yeah, you know. When you find someone you like..."

The Doctor smiled. "Oh, I get it. Got your eye on someone."

"Hey, Matty," one of the boys called out, already a few sheets to the wind. "Let's hit the bricks, mate. Mercury's a-waitin'."

"You know what, guys, why don't you go ahead without me," he said. "Er, this is John. I think we're going to sit and chat for a bit longer."

Someone offered his hand to the Doctor, who shook it. It reminded him of yet another thing that had been missing from his life for quite some time: good, clean camaraderie with other men. And Captain Jack didn't count; there was nothing clean about Jack's camaraderie.

Reacting to Devlin's balking, the first guy said, "Oh, right," he said. "Got to remain pure for your new lady love, have you? Blimey, Matt."

"Oi, leave him alone," one of the others said. "Just 'cause you ain't got a shot with that redhead in your office..."

"See ya, Matty," one of the others said, as they were leaving.

He saw them out the door, and then looked sheepishly at the Doctor, before bursting out in nervous laughter. "Sorry about them. Morons."

"You shouldn't stay here on my account," the Doctor said.

"Sorry," Devlin said. "I didn't even think... you should have gone!"

"No, no," the Doctor said. "I'm more bark than bite, really. I want to hear about your _lady love_."

"Oh, it's nothing really. Just a crush. Someone I sort of work with, so it would be really, really complicated if we were to, you know... get together."

"But you've got to remain pure?" the Doctor asked, one eyebrow sceptically up.

Devlin laughed. "Nah, just a joke. I just... can't look at anyone else right now. Can't think of taking home someone random when she's on my mind, that's all."

"I know the feeling."

"Looking at the wrong face, hearing the wrong voice while you're... it would feel wrong. My heart couldn't be in it."

The Doctor nodded, wondering whether to relate the story of finding someone who, indeed, had the correct face and the correct voice, but was in fact, the wrong woman. He decided against it. Too weird.

"So you?" Devlin asked. "Bad break-up?"

The Doctor exhaled through pursed lips. "Well, more just... unresolved issues."

"Like what?"

"Well, there was this one girl. I loved her, and we were happy, I guess. And then she was sort of... we'll just say she was unceremoniously ripped from my life. And I tried to start a new relationship before I was ready, and wound up annihilating that one."

"How so?"

"Kept talking about the first one," the Doctor confessed. "Shot her down anytime she tried to get closer to me. Thwarted her somehow, every time she started to tell me she loved me. Tried to pretend we were just friends... and we weren't. And even if we were, she wanted more from me, and I knew it. But I held back everything, didn't even act like I noticed until it was too late, and I could see the hurt in her eyes..."

Something choked him and he stopped. He had realised earlier that Martha was taking up a new space in his mind, at the forefront where Rose had once been. He hadn't noticed when his feelings changed, just all of a sudden this afternoon, there she was, like a great big mocking neon sign. He had said goodbye to Rose properly now, and had closure on the sex issue... he'd said goodbye.

Martha. Now she was torturing him.

Well her, and the need to blow off steam, as Devlin had put it. Yikes, this could mean trouble.

They still lacked closure, he still had never apologised for his behaviour, she still didn't know how dynamic and beautiful he found her. Really, _really_ beautiful.

"Have you seen her since?" Devlin asked.

"Oh yes," the Doctor told him. "She rang me a few months later and asked for help, asked me to come and see her. I went. She was engaged by then."

"Is she still engaged? Maybe it's not too late."

"No," the Doctor chuckled. "Now she's married."

"Sorry, mate," Devlin sighed. "I guess you'll just have to tell yourself that it never could have worked anyhow."

The Doctor nodded, knowing that Devlin's philosophy was for the best, but also knowing that if he'd given Martha Jones half a chance, something magical _could_ have happened. It was tragically true, he had learned, that we never really realise what we have until we've lost it. And there it was, in all its hideous glory. He had unresolved, possibly romantic feelings toward a _married woman_.

"I suppose it's karma," the Doctor said aloud. "The universe has a way of giving you back what you've earned." He thought of all the times when Martha must have felt this way about him, that horrible brick wall between them, that universal angst knowing that even if you grew the courage to say something, the one you cared for was still unavailable. Or in his case, deaf, dumb and blind.

* * *

The Doctor, in spite of not being a drinker, and Devlin had a few that night. The Doctor eventually explained how when he and Rose were separated, they hadn't had sex (but had really, really wanted to), and never got to say goodbye. He didn't reveal the goodbye-closure scene with his double, nor did he reveal the sexual closure scene with Rose's double, but he skirted around it in a way that satisfied the half-drunk DS.

"So what you've got to do then," Devlin said. Or _Matt_, as he had eventually insisted upon being called. "Is delineate what's causing the clog with Martha. You said you thought she was hot..."

"Oh yes."

"But you never said."

"Oh no."

"And you never apologised for being an arse while she was with you."

"Right."

"So fix it. Whatever you did with Rose, do the same thing with Martha so that the next lucky girl can have all of you."

Wow, this was way better than having a girlfriend. A bloke with insight who didn't want to shag him? What a coup! And how many humans did he know who often used the word _delineate_, especially after several pints?

But of course, Matt didn't know all the weird, sordid, otherworldly details of how closure with Rose had been achieved. He didn't understand that the odds of something like that happening again were nigh on impossible.

* * *

The light of day came, and the TARDIS was still whispering in his brain. He willed her to be still – he couldn't take the pressure today. He told himself it had nothing to do with the alcohol, but he knew better. That was another thing: the TARDIS had never got drunk and only understood the _concept_ of a hangover.

He got up and dressed, and as he climbed into his suit, he scolded himself. Why had he gone all blotto last night? He hadn't been completely pissed, but it had been enough to give him a right headache, and it had been the first time drinking alcohol of any consequence in _this_ body. It was like getting hammered for the first time! And what had it solved? Absolutely nothing. He'd been gagging for a shag before that, and had recognised the haunting of Martha Jones, and after a mini-binge with Matt... well, he was still gagging for a shag, and still thinking of Martha. He didn't quite think it was right to have those two things mix... not that it had never occurred to him before...

He went through all of these motions, realising that he'd be standing still for two days waiting for his appointment with the CPS. Two days in nine hundred years was a drop in the ocean, but the idea of it made him positively exhausted with tedium. Normally, he liked London just fine and didn't mind killing time there. But just now, he wasn't in the mood. He wanted this over with.

_Screw it. I'm going to cheat_.

So he jumped ahead, hangover and all, to Monday morning for his nine o'clock appointment in James Steele's office. He desperately hoped this would be his last involvement with the Fenwick murder case.

He walked with his head down, eyes fixed on the concrete, sunglasses on, trying not to let the light in nor make any eye contact. When he arrived at the CPS, he was ushered into a cluttered office with crooked Venetian blinds and rickety, institutional chairs. A secretary brought him a cup of lukewarm tea in a Styrofoam cup, and apologised for Mr. Steele's tardiness.

Within a few minutes, Steele burst into the room with armloads of files, his briefcase crooked in one hand and his suit coat draped awkwardly over the other. He dumped his belongings on his desk, smiling half-heartedly at his nine-o'clock. He looked like Daniel Craig's less-threatening brother, with rather a chiselled, stressed face and a gravelly voice. His demeanour, in spite of coming upon the scene like a firecracker, was gentle, and the Doctor imagined that he might be someone who could put a witness at ease.

"Mr. Smith," he gasped. He stumbled over to the table where the Doctor was seated. The Doctor stood, and they shook hands. "So glad you could come by. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Time doesn't mean much to me," the Doctor quipped. "It's no bother."

"I'm sorry to do this to you, but unfortunately, I've been called out on an emergency."

"Oh?"

"Yeah... a different case," he sighed. "A witness has been killed, my boss pulled some strings and got them to hold the crime scene for me. I hope you understand."

"Sure," said the Doctor. "But I'm not available after today, you see..."

"Oh, I've taken care of that," Steele assured him, moving back toward his desk. He pulled his jacket on and straightened his tie. "Don't worry, I wouldn't leave you hanging. You'll be meeting with my associate instead, Miss Phillips. She's had to put her head together on the fly, peruse the file and things, but she'll be here presently."

"Oh. Okay."

"I hope you don't feel I've passed the buck, as it were," Steele said, picking up his briefcase once again. "Really, she's more than capable, and she and I work very closely together."

"Okay. No problem."

"Thanks for your understanding, Mr. Smith," Steele said. "Perhaps we'll see each other again."

With that he was off, and the Doctor clasped his hand behind his back and sighed, "Blimey, I hope not." Not that he didn't like James Steele, he just hoped to have his nose out of this case as soon as damn possible so that he could move on, go off to brood in some other corner of the universe.

He wandered over to the window and looked out upon a teeming city. So many lives, deaths. So much love and hate, so much to be seen and yet more that couldn't be seen. The most brilliant human beings he'd ever known lived here, some of them in this time, and yet it all felt dead to him. The Doctor was a man who liked closure. The nature of his life meant that he couldn't always have it, and so he craved it. There was a barrier between him and this living London, and...

"Hi, sorry to keep you waiting," a voice said from behind him.

He turned and laid astonished eyes upon James Steele's young associate. She introduced herself, and suggested he sit.

And then she smiled. In response, the Doctor grabbed hold of a bookcase to steady himself.

Whoa.

* * *

In the fifteen minutes he'd spent in that cluttered office with Alesha Phillips, he'd completely forgotten about his aching head, and had run the gamut of possible emotions. He'd begun by feeling woozy and so stunned he couldn't speak. Then, once seated, he'd asked almost as many questions as she had. She'd dodged every single one of them in a very lawyerly manner – after all, as she'd good-naturedly reminded him, they were not there to interrogate _her_. He was suspicious, and then starry-eyed and amazed. Then he regressed into a bit of schoolboy smitten until he was finally sure that he'd sufficiently freaked her out, and needed to get the hell out of there.

Because it wasn't just that she was pretty. It wasn't just that she _looked_ like Martha Jones. It wasn't just that they had exactly the same voice, and lovely skin, beautifully-formed lips and liquid dark eyes. And it wasn't just that the timing was extraordinary, or that he was now completely smitten. It was that in seeing her, he began to feel the wheels turning. He began to think of how Alesha could be the key to closure. _This one's not going to be as "easy" as the last one – how can I manipulate her? How can I get her to give me what I want? _

He didn't like where his mind was wandering to. He needed to get some distance, so he left, careful of his words and facial expression, careful of how quickly he moved and how hard he squeezed when they shook hands and parted company. He'd likely scared her with all of those questions and the goofy, unrestrained look in his eye, and made this already fairly unpleasant murder case into something that was personally quite dodgy for her... and he wanted to make amends. She wasn't Martha, but he couldn't help but feel close to her, protective. He didn't want her feeling unsafe...

...but he also did not want to leave this opportunity untapped.

He stood outside the CPS and stared back at the building. He took a deep breath, and headed back inside. He returned to Steele's office and found it empty. His eyes darted about, and spied another door, through which he reckoned Alesha had come (since he hadn't been watching when she'd entered). He opened the door and saw the lovely, lovely lady sitting at her desk, going through a file.

She looked up. "Hello, there. Can I help you with something else?"

"I... erm... just wanted to say..." his mouth was still open, and the pause was growing.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to say that I'm not a creep."

She smiled. "I didn't say you were."

"But I acted like one."

"Maybe a bit."

"It's just... I like you."

"I kind of noticed." Fortunately she was still smiling.

"I think you're lovely."

"Thank you," she said. Her chin was up, and for a moment, she looked nothing like Martha. Martha had always had a prevailing shyness around him, no matter how brave or assertive she became. If ever he complimented her, her face went to distortion, and she looked away. Except for once, on the day she left.

Alesha's different demeanour was interesting and refreshing to him. It felt like a brand-new start.

"I'm involved in a case that you're working on," he began, walking toward her slowly. "And it might be a conflict of interest, and all that. I know that you have your ethics, and I respect that. Really. But you know, I'll be at Moriarty's tonight. It's a free country – couldn't fault you for stopping in, saying hello."

She turned her head and looked at him sceptically, tantalisingly. "Are you asking me out?"

"No, no, that wouldn't be right," he insisted exaggeratedly. "I'm just telling you where I'll be this evening, and pointing out that it wouldn't be illegal if you were to be there too. Especially since I'm an anonymous source who does not exist and has no identity anyway."

She continued smiling. "Very well played, sir."

"Yeah? I thought so too," he told her, grinning widely.


	2. Chapter 2  Ending 1

**Yes, this is an ending. It's a cliffhanger, but it's an ending. It's up to you to decide what happens next!**

**On another note, I'll be writing an alternate ending! I couldn't decide which one to go with, so I'll go with both! Stay tuned for Ending #2 in the next week or two!**

**

* * *

**The Doctor had no trouble finding someone to hustle him at billiards. He thought about hustling back, but reckoned that using his computer-like ability to judge angle and force in order to take money from humans who likely couln't spare it, well, it wouldn't be an entirely sporting application of his Time Lord intellect. So he lost a few rounds, by design. No matter – it was a bit of fun, and he was just killing time anyhow. He'd resolved to wait until ten o'clock, then he would leave, and never give another thought to Alesha Phillips. It wasn't right, what he was doing... well, it wasn't really wrong either, but it was certainly a bit on the outside. He should be able to solve his issues with women on his own, without resorting to unsuspecting prostitutes and prosecutors.

But at nine-forty-five, Alesha came in. She was wrapped up tight in a woollen coat, but she was still spectacular. She went for the bar first, and deliberately ignored the Doctor. He could tell by the little smirk on her face. He laid some money on the green velvet, congratulated the winner rather absently, then excused himself, and sidled up next to her.

"Same again?" the barman asked him.

"Yep," he answered. "And hers as well."

"Thanks," she said, nudging him with her left shoulder, still not looking at him. "I'll get the next one."

"The next one?" he asked. "Well, that sounds promising."

"No... not promising. Not promising anything," she said. "Just evening the playing field."

"Excuse me?"

"If you pay, it's a date. If we go dutch, it could be... I don't know, something else."

"I see."

"Besides," she said. "Don't want to leave here owing you anything." She looked up at him slyly, barely, through long eyelashes, then quickly looked away.

"Good, because I'm told choosing a gift for me is murder," he joked dryly.

She smiled and sighed. "I'm breaking the rules just by being here."

"Oh hardly. All you did was come into a pub."

"What if someone overheard you tell me where you were going tonight? I could be..."

"Stop right there," he said, turning to look at her squarely. "If you're uncomfortable, then go. I understand."

She looked at him properly for the first time since entering. "I am uncomfortable. But I don't want to go. I don't know why."

"It's the sideburns," he said. "I've made blind monks _swoon_ with these babies."

She laughed. "That must be it."

The barman sat two drinks in front of them, the Doctor paid the man, and he led Alesha to a table toward the back.

* * *

And they talked. She wasn't Martha, she was a totally different animal. But holy Rassilon, was she clever. He poked and prodded, just to see if she was a relative, but as far as background, she had a big _zero _in common with his old friend. She had parents in town, and that was it – no other family in England. Alesha had grown up in Hackney, piss poor, and had gone to university and to law school on scholarships and, as she put it, about seven billion pounds in loans. All of her credentials had been earned through sweat and toil, she'd pushed through the sexism, the racism, the classism, and arrived at the CPS four years before.

John Smith was, as always, enigmatic. He was military, special ops, very hush-hush, can't discuss. No family to speak of, a few good friends, married before but not now... and he told her he'd earned his Ph.D. so that she could stop calling him John. He said his friends called him "Doctor," and she promptly and boldly insinuated herself as a friend. He was quite proud of himself for this little ruse.

And after he'd let her pick up the second round of drinks, they went their separate ways, with a plan to meet up the following evening.

* * *

As he trudged back into the TARDIS, the machine sensed his unrest, and whispered to him soothingly. She had, by now, worked out that his angst was coming, at least partly, from a place that she could not touch. So she just whispered, and it calmed him.

He wandered back into the now rarely-used corridors of the ship and opened the door to the cold, azure and ivory bedroom that had been Martha's. He switched on the light and illuminated the bright, soft surroundings. He remembered the one and only time he'd set foot in this room while Martha was travelling with him. He had pushed open the door tentatively, and she had been sitting upon the bed cross-legged, wearing light pink fleece sweats and her hair pulled back from her face. She'd been reading a book, and when she looked up and smiled, he'd thought she might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Something in the softness, the delicacy and naturalness of the situation had stirred him even then.

"God, you were beautiful," the Doctor murmured to the empty room. "And brilliant. Just... oh, brilliant." The words echoed mockingly off the walls, as if to emphasize that the sentiment would never get beyond this room. He drifted sadly back out again, and went to bed.

* * *

Alesha's choice for the next night was a book shop, where they perused dusty literature and had tea and biscotti together.

"What's that?" he asked, coming round a tight corning and catching her looking intently at an old cracked leather copy of something.

"_Anna Karenina_," she said. "It's a 1934 edition."

"I've actually not read that," he said, more to himself than to her. He wondered absently why that was.

"It's beautiful," she said. "Tragic, but beautiful. Imagine loving someone so much, that if you can't have their love in return, you'd rather throw yourself in front of a train."

A rush of heat came over the Doctor. Hearing these words from _her_ was somewhat disturbing, even though his mind understood that she was not referring, in any way, to him. Still, he gulped hard before saying, "It's hard to imagine that."

"Well, I'm buying it," she said, clutching it to her chest. She turned sideways and coquettishly said, "Perhaps if you're nice to me, I'll let you borrow it."

The Doctor chose an Uzbek cookbook for his _Oddities of Literature_ collection, a personal, and highly entertaining endeavour. As they were leaving with their beverages and carefully-selected reading material in-hand, the Doctor leaned his head in one direction, suggesting that she follow. He was walking in the opposite direction of where the TARDIS was parked, in order to avoid the temptation of showing it to her. He took the plastic bag from her and carried it along with his own, and then took her hand. She smiled slightly, but basically didn't react.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few minutes.

"Nowhere in particular," he said. "Just for a walk."

"Because I was thinking, if you've not got a plan..." she trailed off.

"I haven't. Go ahead, I'm all ears."

"My flat is two blocks that way," she said, motioning with her chin. "I'll make us some more tea, and I'll start reading _Anna _to you."

"Anna?"

"Yes, I've read her twice. She and I are on a first-name basis now, and we think it's a travesty that you have not been introduced. What do you say?"

"Well, how could I say no to you and your friend?"

"You can't. That's all there is to it."

She tugged his hand to the right, they crossed two streets and found themselves in front of a very typical, brick and white line of flats. She let them into her small dwelling and put the kettle on.

They sat on the sofa with the book, and she began with the immortal first words of _Anna Karenina_.

"All happy families are alike; but every unhappy family is unhappy after its own fashion,'" she read.

After her voice started to feel strained, he took over. But, the reading eventually deteriorated into discussion, and soon the book was tossed aside, and Alesha was sitting sideways on her sofa with both hands around her mug, speaking emphatically about Dorian Gray, while the Doctor listened with delight.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" he said. It had just come out – he hadn't meant for it to. But it gave him a frisson of pleasure just to have said it.

She smiled, surprised, and chirped. "Thanks! You too. It's hard to find a bloke who cares about this stuff."

"Oh, I'm... I'm... I'm of a different breed, Alesha," he said. "You could almost say, a different species."

"I can see that," she said, not knowing how much she _couldn't_ see. She seemed to study him, and her eyes narrowed a bit. She reached up and touched his cheek, felt the sandpapery texture of his perpetual five o'clock shadow with the pads of her fingers.

He studied her back, and felt yet another little frisson of pleasure from being touched by her. To his surprise, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Just for about three seconds, then she pulled away. He'd barely had time to register the situation, close his eyes and kiss back.

At last, she asked, "Doctor, would you like to see me again?"

"Yes," he told her, without hesitation.

"And again after that?"

"Yes, I think so." He found that he wasn't lying. This could mean disaster.

She sighed. "I was afraid of that."

His hearts sank. "Why?" He swallowed hard, keeping a certain panic down.

"If you'd delayed, hesitated at all... then I'd know you weren't sincere and I could justify ending this with you. That would be easier."

The panic was rising further. He didn't expect to feel this way when it was over. Whatever "it" was.

She continued. "But the fact that you like me... well, that makes things difficult. Because now I can't end it. I can't bring myself to do it. I like you, too, and have to listen to my own heart, even though we'll have to hide it from James and my boss, and I know you'll hurt me in the end." She was speaking in an even, soft monotone, as though channelling the voice of a wizened spirit.

His mouth opened in shock. He pulled his emotion into check, then asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Your lifestyle," she answered, shrugging sadly, now sounding a bit more like herself again. "How long before you have to go back into deep cover?"

He almost told her the truth then. He almost said that he was a nomad, a traveller, not a military man. He almost spilled it all, was tempted to take her out into the night once again and show her the TARDIS, tell her about the planets and the aliens and the companions, the whole lot... but in the interest of not _scaring _her, he held back. Besides, as much as he didn't want to continue the charade, he was not yet sure that he wanted her to know any of that. So he went for non-committal.

"I'm not sure what to say, Alesha. But... I promise..."

He paused.

"Promise what?" she asked. "What can you possibly _promise_ at this stage?" It wasn't an accusation, just an even-tempered pointing out of what she felt was obvious. She was strong, logical and just a bit argumentative. She'd chosen the right profession for herself, without a doubt.

"I promise not to hurt you unduly. I promise I won't leave town without plenty of notice. And when I go back... to wherever it is I need to go," he told her. "I will find a way for us to communicate, and even see each other, if you want. If you don't want, then..." and he opened his hands in an _as you like_ gesture.

Promising not to hurt her unduly was more than he'd ever been able to promise or give Martha, and it felt like an accomplishment to him. But he knew that the average woman wouldn't see this as exactly magic.

"So you're promising to be a nice guy," she summarised.

"Basically," he said, realising she was right. "Yes. Is that so bad?"

"No. And I suppose it's all I can ask, for now," Alesha said. "It's the second date. I've not right to..."

"Sure you do. Not that we're engaged or anything, but if we're going to get involved, then... yeah, you have the right to protect yourself."

And with these words, he realised that he was now _involved_.

And this was good. And bad. Oh, he had so many secrets to keep from her. Fortunately, she would probably understand, deep cover and all.

She nodded, and suddenly her face had run to worried. "Yeah, speaking of which..." she said.

"Speaking of...?" he asked, his bottom lip outstretched, looking for confirmation.

"Protecting myself," she whispered, just barely audible. "There's a lot I haven't told you."

Her demeanour had changed so drastically, he began to wonder if she had secrets as large as his. Maybe _she_ was in deep cover!

"Well," he said, covering all of his thoughts. "Clearly. I've got a few doozies myself. All in good time, eh?"

"Well, I've got a big one," she said. "And I feel like I have to tell you _now_ because... I mean, it might affect how... you see, I'm not... something happened a while back and you'd be well within your rights to... oh, God."

"What is it?" Her reluctance to speak was troubling indeed.

It took her a while to stop staring at the floor and begin talking again. "It's just... I've never had to tell anyone about this, since it happened," she said, fidgeting with her shirt collar. "Not in my personal life. I told the police, but that was totally different."

"Whatever it is, I'm listening."

She sighed. She leaned to the side and fished under the coffee table where she'd thrown her handbag. She reached into it and pulled out her iPhone, and handed it to the Doctor.

"Alec Merrick," she said. "Look him up."

He navigated through her internet application and found a London Times archived article about Dr. Alec Merrick, a gynaecologist who had been convicted of nine counts of sexual assault, and four counts of rape. All of his crimes had been perpetrated against his patients. He'd been sentenced to enough years in prison that he'd likely never be free, barring parole.

The Doctor didn't have to ask why she'd had him look up Dr. Merrick, her behaviour had made it obvious. Apart from giving him a protective bloodlust, the revelation made him absolutely sick. Not because of Alesha, but because once in a while, in spite of his being a great fan of humankind, one of them absolutely disgusted him, brought out a side of him that he didn't like.

But he wasn't going to blunder in with some insulting, falsely chivalrous, banal expression of moral outrage, or with an incendiary question. Instead, he looked up at Alesha for a read. She was looking, once again, at the floor.

"I take it you know this man," the Doctor said, handing her iPhone back.

She nodded, taking the gadget, putting it back in her bag.

"Did you help put him in prison?" he asked gently.

"In a manner of speaking," she said.

"I'll assume that it wasn't in your capacity as prosecutor."

She shook her head.

"Are you one of the nine, or one of the four?" he asked, again, very gently.

"I was a fifth. My charges didn't stick. It's kind of a long story. But... thought you should know," she said, a little more clipped than she might have liked.

"And you thought this might make me not want to see you anymore?" he asked.

She stared at him for a few moments, and the Doctor could see she wasn't sure how to respond. "I didn't mean to insult you," she said, finally.

He was surprised. "You haven't insulted me!" he insisted. "I just want to get my head round what you're trying to tell me. I mean, what it has to do with... us. With _this._ I'm happy to talk to you about it, I'm just not sure which tack to take."

She now stared into her teacup, which was sitting in her lap, clasped tightly in her right hand. "I was raped."

"Yes."

"So, I might not be ready to..." then her eyes shifted meaningfully to the Doctor's. She paused. "Not for quite a while."

"Oh, is that...? I see. Okay," he said.

"I _want_ to. I mean... not right this second, but... I just mean, I do... in spite of it all..." she sighed and looked up at him. He smiled softly, and waited. She seemed to gather herself and continue. "I like you. You're clever and sexy and you've got this mysterious secret life... you're like James Bond only sort of geeky."

"You're not the first person to tell me that," he said, remembering the night of Lazarus' horrible experiment.

"And you're being _so_ nice right now, normally, I might want to climb you."

"That's _always_ good news."

"But I won't. I can't. It's so scary, Doctor..."

"The body is willing, the spirit is unable."

"It' just... I haven't tried yet, haven't been down that road, as it were, with anyone since. So I don't know, really, how it would go... all I know is that I can't say with any certainty that it would go well."

"Okay," he repeated. Well, perhaps it wasn't all that surprising. He'd come into this wanting exactly the thing she couldn't give just now, but he wasn't about to walk away because of that. There was too much else to be enamoured of, too many other things to admire and talk about and explore with her.

In fact, this roadblock had caused him, as roadblocks do, to take a turn, and that was brilliant. This was no longer about scratching an itch. It was about being a part of an extraordinary woman's life.

"Okay, what?" she asked.

"Just, okay. I'm okay with it."

"Really?" she asked sceptically. "What if you have to leave again in three weeks, and we haven't... yet? Wouldn't you rather spend your precious off-time with someone who can... you know, do all those things with you?"

"No, I wouldn't," he said.

"Lots of single women out there," she said. "You could have any one of them."

"Nope."

She smiled. "All right. If you say so. Might be a bumpy ride, Doctor."

"Funny, that's what _I_ usually say to people," he chuckled. "Trust me, I'm used to it. I can handle, if anything, the bumpy ride."

"You can handle the tears and setbacks? If we try, and fail, you won't take it personally?"

"Absolutely not."

"I might get you all worked up, then start weeping."

He narrowed his eyes and thought about it. "I can't guarantee that I won't do the same thing to you."

She chuckled. "What?"

"I'm sensitive."

She shook her head in amused disbelief. Then she grew serious. "Honestly. You can handle the waiting?"

"I can." He didn't say that it was because in the past, he'd been known to wait hundreds of years.

"Even though this might only be a short-term thing, and we may _never_ have sex?"

"Even though."

"Okay, I'll choose to trust you," she said. "Somehow, you inspire that in me."

"You're not the first person to tell me that either," he smirked.

"Now, next topic, Doctor," she said, settling in for another discussion. "Why is it that _you_ warn people of a bumpy ride?"

* * *

The Doctor resolved not to lie to Alesha any more than he had to, but he did still feel it was necessary to omit certain facts about his life. Well, most of the facts about his life, really.

But he did say that he'd done a lot of travelling and that he was prone, as she already knew, to pull a get-up-and-go on a moment's notice. Sometimes people (women) had chosen to go with, sometimes they'd chosen to stay. He even related a few more specific stories of being forced to move on without someone he cared about, because they didn't like the life anymore or because they'd fallen ill or gone crazy or...

He said he'd been known to put loved ones in harm's way, drag them into conflicts they had no business in. And, he said meaningfully, now giving Alesha the chance to bail out, keeping secrets always took its toll. No matter how much people thought they could live with it, eventually, they'd always got frustrated and demanded to know more.

"Life with me is no easy feat," he'd told Alesha.

"Fortunately, I'm not thinking of life," she'd responded.

He'd left her flat shortly thereafter, noticing that it was now past two in the morning, but he was in good spirits. It looked now like his stay in London would be much longer than expected. His brooding in a far corner of the universe would just have to wait until he was finished being happy.

* * *

They saw each other every night over the next two weeks, Alesha holding her breath to hear the news that he'd be leaving soon, the Doctor holding his breath to hear her ask more about his life and his past. But it didn't come up. Apart from her asking whether they could meet up at _his _flat, she never indicated that she wanted to know more.

"I'm staying in a boarding house at the moment," he'd said. "Dingy, cramped."

"Ah, lovely," she'd lilted, chuckling.

So they went out, or spent the evening at hers. They had good food (and some bad food too), and talked about everything under the sun, and a few things beyond it. They saw a couple of films, perused several different book stores, went to a poetry reading, saw a musical and had more than a few good snogs. Each time they went to her flat, they made slightly more headway into _Anna Karenina_, but it was mostly just an excuse to retire to the sofa with some wine.

For the first time in his life, the Doctor was forging a relationship with someone _outside_ of the TARDIS. For once, he was in _her _domain, learning to do things _her _way, rather than the usual vice versa. The adventures of cinema and bookshops and theatre were rarely-held treasures for the Doctor, ones not often experienced in the outer reaches of time and space. What a novelty it was to get to know someone _before_ dragging them into the lion's den or into the line of fire.

Alesha was sexy, though, and she knew it. She didn't try to tease him with it; her attractiveness was just part of who she was. She lived in her skin very comfortably, and he was inflamed, in spite of himself. Once again, she exuded a confidence that his old friend, her look-alike, had never shown him, unless she was bandaging a wound or staring down an enemy. The Doctor's itch had not gone away, though he had tried to put it out of his mind. He was not made of stone, and couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before Alesha dragged _him_ into the line of fire. Even though he knew he might be shot down, he wanted to try.

* * *

On their sixteenth date, he got his answer. It was a Wednesday. They'd met up for dinner with a plan to go to her friend's football match, but after dinner, Alesha said that she was too tired. They went back to her flat, and immediately, she tossed him a corkscrew and excused herself. When she emerged, she was barefoot, and she said, "Sorry, I had to get out of those panty hose. Feel privileged not to have to wear them."

Later, after they had put _Anna_ aside and were almost finished with a bottle of Merlot, her feet were in his lap, and he massaged the high-heel-induced stress out of them, as well as her calves. Her head rested on the back of the sofa, and she hummed dreamily along with the music he'd put on.

Her outburst was both quite sudden, and quite smooth. "Doctor, would you like to make love to me?"

He looked at her with a bit of shock, and her eyes slid open, her head still resting to the side. There wasn't a touch of mischief or irony in her face – it was a legitimate question.

"You know the answer to that," he said, continuing to massage, smiling slightly.

"Tonight?"

"Any time you say."

"I say."

His hearts began to beat faster, and briefly, he wondered if she'd notice them, once they got nice and close, skin on skin. But the thought dissipated in favour of more interesting things.

"But," she said. "Tell me, so I know. I want to hear it."

"I want to make love to you," he said

She sighed and smiled. "And I'd like that too. But there's something I have to do first."

He smiled a little wider. "Okay."

And to his surprise, she shifted, and crawled in his lap with one knee on either side of him. She never lost eye contact with him as she peeled off the bright blue cardigan she'd been wearing and tossed it into an armchair nearby. She draped her arms over the back of the sofa and kissed him with certainty, letting her tongue dance, as it had many times, against his. He moved to put his hands on her hips, but she caught them and put them back against the sofa, leaning into the kiss.

She pulled away, and gently kissed his ear multiple times, intentionally letting him hear her breath, quite close. Meanwhile, her fingers manoeuvred his tie loose and undid his first two buttons. She pulled the collar aside and planted little kisses all over the sensitive area underneath. She even snaked her tongue outside of her mouth and licked the flesh, eliciting another groan from him. His head fell back against the sofa, a smile having formed on his face. She took this opportunity to attack the rest of his neck with nips and kisses, running one hand through his hair and massaging his scalp.

She leaned back away from him, and she unbuttoned her own black blouse, and he watched, struggling to keep his breathing steady. She shrugged it off, and it joined the blue cardigan in the chair. He ran his fingers over the tops of her breasts, the smooth, round part visible above the black lace bra she was wearing. She gently took his hand and put it aside, and she whispered, "No." Then she smiled, as he gazed at her with understanding bemusement, but not frustration.

She leaned forward and brought her lips very close to his ear. "Tell me you want me," she whispered, panting just a little bit, just enough.

"I want you," he whispered back.

"How much?" she asked, reaching down to feel the bulge she'd noticed forming over the last few minutes.

She squeezed it through his trousers and it stiffened even more against her hand. He slid his eyes closed, and he moaned, "That much."

Very gently, very slowly, she unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and worked his member loose from inside. She sat back on his knees and stroked him, letting the fingers of both hands slip over the distended flesh. She let the feel of _maleness _make her desirous, allowed herself to want it again. The length of it, the warmth, the hardness felt good between her fingers, and she found herself warming very much to it. Very, very much. The time was now.

His eyes were shut as he fell deeper and deeper into the pleasure, deeper under Alesha's spell.

"Want me to stop?" she asked softly.

"No," he whispered, entranced. "Please don't stop."

With one hand, she pulled the ribbon loose on her grey wraparound skirt, and pulled the garment away from her body, adding it to the growing pile of clothes in the chair. The only thing between him and her now was a thin piece of black lace, a pair of expensive underwear covering, but not concealing, Alesha's nether regions. She reached down and pushed it aside, and rose up on her knees, and when she came back down, he was inside her.

For a few moments they were very still. Alesha let the feeling wash over her, this, the simplest of human pleasures. The purest and most primal, the sensation of interlocking with another body, of the climbing ecstasy, of being filled. It is one of the most _needed, _most craved feelings in the entire repertoire of human experience, one of the elements of life that can keep us in touch with who we are and where we come from.

And to think she had been dreading this moment for months on end, because it was something that had been taken away from her, marred, she thought, forever, in order to satisfy someone else's selfishness. She'd thought making love would be a _process_, like wading into a cold pool, where the shock drives one back out of the water at first. She'd thought the first time back would be tearful, fraught with images and memories and feelings she didn't want but couldn't shake.

But no. Not now.

As she began to move on him, she opened her eyes to find the Doctor watching her. The look on his face was one of urgency and desire, pleasure at watching her, boiling from being buried inside her. And she knew now that she was in control. Of everything. Of her body, of her surroundings, her situation and her emotions. She pressed everything she had down on him, into him, around him, and then did it again. The hardness inside her drove to her core and caused her whole being to hum, pulse, light up with electricity. They both groaned as she repeated, repeated, repeated the insistent clinging, grinding. She didn't make large movements, just deep, perfect ones that kept the pleasure alive and bodies with no light in-between.

She felt the explosion rising within and knew perfectly that if she could get there, she could get anywhere after that. She felt she could expel all of the bile, all of the hang-ups she'd collected over the past months, and find a new lease on love and sex and humanity. She gripped the back of his head, burying her hands in his hair. She gently tugged at it, and he let her force his head back. Her forearms dug into his shoulders, her eyes dug into his eyes, she gritted her teeth, and all at once, she let go. She threw her head back involuntarily and let out one short, intense cry as release flowed through her like silken shockwaves.

The Doctor had been on the rise himself when Alesha's moment had come, and as it had, her whole body trembled, and her insides pulsed. Her orgasm tugged at him just right, in every way, and set him on the brink. As she had, he began to grit his teeth, and resisted the urge to grab hold of her. He knew he had to wait for that. So he dug his fingernails into the sofa cushions and braced himself. She smiled at him, did not stop her circular grinding movements, but he could see a little bit of perspiration now forming at her hairline and across her jaw. She was biting her lower lip and panting properly now, spent from the exertion and pleasure... and he was ready to blow.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked him breathlessly.

"You," he hissed back. "Tell me it's okay." He was shaking. Holding back was jarring his system.

"It's okay," she said, taking his face in her hands, with a driving urgency concentrated to a razor-like whisper. "I'm ready for it – do it now."

Now it was his turn. He stopped trembling and in exchange, began to convulse with pleasure as he released into her. He let out a crackling groan, and seemed to come in tide after tide of liquid intoxication, for ages. She pressed her tongue into his mouth once again, and her grip, her kiss brought him down, until his head was swimming with the euphoria and the taste and smell of her.

Through half-closed eyes and a low tone, she asked, "Still want to?"

"Oh, yes."

"Even now?"

"Especially now."

"Well, now you can."

* * *

She was exquisite in black lace, and her sigh was music. She was perfect to his eyes and ears. She was, if possible, more beautiful and brilliant in the dark than in the light. Her body clung to him, gripped him in every way. _She_ was gripping, just a riveting woman. Always, but more so after that night.

They'd lit a lavender scented candle and shut the world out of her bedroom, and the Doctor felt a little like he was in his own home. Like in the TARDIS, he could have been anywhere, could have opened the door upon the surface of one of the moons of Sanduvega 17, or atop a cliff in South America, or upon the depths of space itself, and it wouldn't have mattered. They existed in their own little world where all that was important was grasping and pleasure.

She'd sighed, and lain back, looking up at him with fire in her eyes. It was a calm that he recognised she'd not felt in quite a while, a kind of submission she'd had to earn back from herself, for herself. He put his hands on her, his lips on her, his teeth and tongue, his whole body, and she relinquished control. He touched her all over, kissed parts of her that she'd forgotten felt good. He was around her, inside her, he whispered to her, watched her swim in pleasure and release.

And he was in trouble.

He'd known it for a couple of weeks, but he felt it for sure as he heard her breathing steady and she slipped off to sleep against his shoulder. He'd begun this little journey because he was all randy and pining. He'd decided to stay in it because he'd managed to find someone intriguing in a non-fantasy-related way, but who appealed to his... sense of the past. But now he was in it up to his neck. They'd spent weeks together. He'd met a couple of her friends. They had _made love_, not just had a good, long shag... and now she was asleep against his naked body, and he liked it. He actually didn't want this moment to end.

Yep. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

There was a blue box waiting for him in a park nearby, and a universe full of turmoil. He couldn't just stay here forever.

Two more hours until sunrise. He'd have to decide what to do before the alarm went off and Alesha's day went off and running...

* * *

And he decided. He had no idea what would come of it, but he decided.

He didn't sleep, for fear that he'd forget how it felt to be with her.

He could, of course, sense time. He'd turned off the alarm just after she'd fallen asleep, not wanting a blaring electronic noise to be the first thing she heard in the morning. Instead, he waited until one minute before six, then woke her gently.

They kissed and cooed for a bit before getting up, then reluctantly she headed for the shower and he made some coffee while still in his underwear. He took an undue amount of glee in this act.

Then, he put on some clothes and gave her a few minutes after emerging from the shower, then he poured her a cup and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Come in."

He went in, handing her the coffee.

"Oh, thanks," she chirped, smiling. "Thanks for making the bed, too."

"Sure. What are your plans for tonight?" he asked.

"Hadn't thought that far ahead yet."

"I have something special in mind, if you're up for it."

"Sure. What is it?"

"It's a surprise. I have some stuff I need to talk to you about."

"Uh-oh," she said, her face falling.

* * *

They met at a tiny bistro at seven that night. They had an elegant dinner, with no word from either one of them about the reason they were there. Alesha did not pressure the Doctor to reveal anything, and he didn't. But as they left the restaurant, he was still smiling and silent, and she couldn't stand it anymore.

He took her hand and turned to the right, walking slowly.

"Doctor, is this our last night together?" she blurted out suddenly.

"What?"

"You said you had something to tell me," she said. "And I've always known that eventually you'd be called back under deep cover."

"I've been called back to where I belong, in a manner of speaking. But whether it's our last night together, that's entirely up to you," he told her.

"Please don't be cryptic," she said, stopping, facing him. "If you're going to break my heart, just do it."

He sighed. "I'm not going to break your heart. You might break mine."

"Excuse me?"

"Okay, listen," he said to her, taking the other hand now as well. "There's something I need to show you, and lots of things I need to tell you. I want to tell you who I really am and what I really do, where I really live, how I came to be there at the CPS that day, how I got to this point, and why."

"Oh my God," she croaked, tears coming to her eyes. "You've been lying to me?"

"Sort of, but I had a very good reason."

"I'm sure you did," she said, wiping a single tear from just below her lashes. "I'm sure you also had a good reason for waiting until _after_ we slept together to tell me the truth."

"I do, and I'll get to it. For now, I'll just say this: I need to go, but I want you to come with me."

"What? You want me to... what?"

"Just that. I can't stay in London. I need to get back out on the road, doing... what it is that I do. But I want you with me, at my side."

"How..." she began. She actually began several sentences at that time, and only wound up finishing one. "How could you even ask me that? I have a life here! A job, friends, my parents..."

"I know," he said. "And I have a habit of asking people to put their lives on hold for a bit. It's not fair, but I can't seem to stop."

"Where would we go?"

"That's the tricky part. I can't say right now."

"So you want me to go with you, to some place unknown, leave my whole existence behind. You think you're that important?" Alesha asked, emotional and exasperated.

"Yes," he confessed. "I do."

"Wow, Doctor. Just... wow."

"I know you think I'm a bit barmy, but I think I can convince you. Will you follow me round the corner?"

"I suppose."

He led her down one block and round the corner. Across the street, there was a play park.

The Doctor pointed to a spot just beside the gate. "There is a blue box there, it says Police Public Call Box. Do you see it?"

"Yeah, now you mention it."

"Before I tell you the significance of it, just listen. And I need you to trust that I'm not lying, and I'm not mental."

"I'll do my best."

"I'm going to tell you the nature of my work, my lifestyle, and... the nature of me. I'm going to begin by telling you about the nature of _us_."

"The nature of us?"

"Yes. You see, three years ago, I met a woman named Martha Jones..."

**END**

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**Thanks for reading... please review!**

**And stay tuned for an alternate ending!**


	3. Chapter 2 Alternate Ending

**Okay, this is an ALTERNATE ENDING! It is NOT Chapter 3! You will find that this posting is remarkably similar to the last posting. That's on purpose!**

**This picks up right where part 1 leaves off. Please enjoy!**

The Doctor had no trouble finding someone to hustle him at billiards. He thought about hustling back, but reckoned that using his computer-like ability to judge angle and force in order to take money from humans who likely couln't spare it, well, it wouldn't be an entirely sporting application of his Time Lord intellect. So he lost a few rounds, by design. No matter – it was a bit of fun, and he was just killing time anyhow. He'd resolved to wait until ten o'clock, then he would leave, and never give another thought to Alesha Phillips. It wasn't right, what he was doing... well, it wasn't really wrong either, but it was certainly a bit on the outside. He should be able to solve his issues with women on his own, without resorting to unsuspecting prostitutes and prosecutors.

But at nine-forty-five, Alesha came in. She was wrapped up tight in a woollen coat, but she was still spectacular. She went for the bar first, and deliberately ignored the Doctor. He could tell by the little smirk on her face. He laid some money on the green velvet, congratulated the winner rather absently, then excused himself, and sidled up next to her.

"Same again?" the barman asked him.

"Yep," he answered. "And hers as well."

"Thanks," she said, nudging him with her left shoulder, still not looking at him. "I'll get the next one."

"The next one?" he asked. "Well, that sounds promising."

"No... not promising. Not promising anything," she said. "Just evening the playing field."

"Excuse me?"

"If you pay, it's a date. If we go dutch, it could be... I don't know, something else."

"I see."

"Besides," she said. "Don't want to leave here owing you anything." She looked up at him slyly, barely, through long eyelashes, then quickly looked away.

"Good, because I'm told choosing a gift for me is murder," he joked dryly.

She smiled and sighed. "I'm breaking the rules just by being here."

"Oh hardly. All you did was come into a pub."

"Oh, you _so _do not understand just _how much_ I'm breaking the rules..."

"Stop right there," he said, turning to look at her squarely. "If you're uncomfortable, then go. I understand."

She looked at him properly for the first time since entering. "I _am_ uncomfortable. But I don't want to go."

The barman sat two drinks in front of them, the Doctor paid the man, and he led Alesha to a table toward the back.

* * *

So they talked. And holy Rassilon, was she clever.

He asked about her background, education, et cetera. She said she had grown up in Hackney, piss poor, and had gone to university and to law school on scholarships and, as she put it, about seven billion pounds in loans. All of her credentials had been earned through sweat and toil, she'd pushed through the sexism, the racism, the classism, and arrived at the CPS four years before.

John Smith was, as always, enigmatic. He was military, special ops, very hush-hush, can't discuss. No family to speak of, a few good friends, married before but not now... and he told her he'd earned his Ph.D. so that she could stop calling him John. He said his friends called him "Doctor," and she promptly and boldly insinuated herself as a friend. It felt right to hear her say it, and he was quite proud of himself for this little ruse.

And after he'd let her pick up the second round of drinks, they went their separate ways, with a plan to meet up the following evening.

* * *

As he trudged back into the TARDIS, the machine sensed his unrest, and whispered to him soothingly. She had, by now, worked out that his angst was coming, at least partly, from a place that she could not touch. So she just whispered, and it calmed him.

He wandered back into the now rarely-used corridors of the ship and opened the door to the cold, azure and ivory bedroom that had been Martha's. He switched on the light and illuminated the bright, soft surroundings. He remembered the one and only time he'd set foot in this room while Martha was travelling with him. He had pushed open the door tentatively, and she had been sitting upon the bed cross-legged, wearing light pink fleece sweats and her hair pulled back from her face. She'd been reading a book, and when she looked up and smiled, he'd thought she might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Something in the softness, the delicacy and naturalness of the situation had stirred him even then.

"God, you were beautiful," the Doctor murmured to the empty room. "And brilliant. Just... oh, brilliant." The words echoed mockingly off the walls, as if to emphasize that the sentiment would never get beyond this room. He drifted sadly back out again, and went to bed.

* * *

Alesha's choice for the next night was a book shop, where they perused dusty literature and had tea and biscotti together.

"What's that?" he asked, coming round a tight corning and catching her looking intently at an old cracked leather copy of something.

"_Anna Karenina_," she said. "It's a 1934 edition."

"I've actually not read that," he said, more to himself than to her. He wondered absently why that was.

"It's beautiful," she said. "Tragic, but beautiful. Imagine loving someone so much, that if you can't have their love in return, you'd rather throw yourself in front of a train."

She looked up at him innocently, and he gulped hard before saying, "It's hard to imagine that."

"Well, I'm buying it," she said, clutching it to her chest. She turned sideways and coquettishly said, "Perhaps if you're nice to me, I'll let you borrow it."

The Doctor chose an Uzbek cookbook for his _Oddities of Literature_ collection, a personal, and highly entertaining endeavour. As they were leaving with their beverages and carefully-selected reading material in-hand, the Doctor leaned his head in one direction, suggesting that she follow. He was walking in the opposite direction of where the TARDIS was parked, in order to avoid the temptation of showing it to her. He took the plastic bag from her and carried it along with his own, and then took her hand. She smiled slightly, but basically didn't react.

"Where are we going?" she asked after a few minutes.

"Nowhere in particular," he said. "Just for a walk."

"Because I was thinking, if you've not got a plan..." she trailed off.

"I haven't. Go ahead, I'm all ears."

"My flat is two blocks that way," she said, motioning with her chin. "I'll make us some more tea, and I'll start reading _Anna _to you."

"Anna?"

"Yes, I've read her twice. She and I are on a first-name basis now, and we think it's a travesty that you have not been introduced. What do you say?"

"Well, how could I say no to you and your friend?"

"You can't. That's all there is to it."

She tugged his hand to the right, they crossed two streets and found themselves in front of a very typical, brick and white line of flats. She let them into her small dwelling and put the kettle on.

They sat on the sofa with the book, and she began with the immortal first words of _Anna Karenina_.

"All happy families are alike; but every unhappy family is unhappy after its own fashion,'" she read.

After her voice started to feel strained, he took over. But, the reading eventually deteriorated into discussion, and soon the book was tossed aside, and Alesha was sitting sideways on her sofa with both hands around her mug, speaking emphatically about Dorian Gray, while the Doctor listened with delight.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" he said. It had just come out – he hadn't meant for it to. But it gave him a frisson of pleasure just to have said it.

She smiled, surprised, and chirped. "Thanks! You too. It's hard to find a bloke who cares about this stuff."

"Oh, I'm... I'm... I'm of a different breed, Alesha," he said. "You could almost say, a different species."

"I can see that," she said. She seemed to study him, and her eyes narrowed a bit. She reached up and touched his cheek, felt the sandpapery texture of his perpetual five o'clock shadow with the pads of her fingers.

He studied her back, and felt yet another little frisson of pleasure from being touched by her. To his surprise, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Just for about three seconds, then she pulled away. He'd barely had time to register the situation, close his eyes and kiss back.

At last, she asked, "Doctor, would you like to see me again?"

"Yes," he told her, without hesitation.

"Really?"

"Of course."

"And again after that?"

"Yes, I think so." He found that he wasn't lying. This could mean disaster.

She sighed. "I was afraid of that."

His hearts sank. "Why?" He swallowed hard, keeping a certain panic down.

"If you'd delayed, hesitated at all... then I'd know you weren't sincere and I could justify ending this with you. That would be easier."

The panic was rising further. He didn't expect to feel this way when it was over. Whatever "it" was.

She continued. "But the fact that you like me... well, that makes things difficult. Because now I can't end it. I can't bring myself to do it. I like you, too, and have to listen to my own heart, even though we'll have to hide it from James and my boss, and I know you'll hurt me in the end." She was speaking in an even, soft monotone, as though channelling the voice of a wizened spirit.

His mouth opened in shock. He pulled his emotion into check, then asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Your lifestyle," she answered, shrugging sadly, now sounding a bit more like herself again. "How long before you have to go back... you know, into deep cover?"

He almost told her the truth then. He almost said that he was a nomad, a traveller, not a military man. He almost spilled it all, was tempted to take her out into the night once again and show her the TARDIS, tell her about the planets and the aliens and the companions, the whole lot... but in the interest of not _scaring _her, he held back. Besides, as much as he didn't want to continue the charade, he was not yet sure that he wanted her to know any of that. So he went for non-committal.

"I'm not sure what to say, Alesha. But... I promise..."

He paused.

"Promise what?" she asked. "What can you possibly _promise_ at this stage?" It wasn't an accusation, just an even-tempered pointing out of what she felt was obvious. She was strong, logical and just a bit argumentative. She'd chosen the right profession for herself, without a doubt.

"I promise not to hurt you unduly. I promise I won't leave town without plenty of notice. And when I go back... to wherever it is I need to go," he told her. "I will find a way for us to communicate, and even see each other, if you want. If you don't want, then..." and he opened his hands in an _as you like_ gesture.

Promising not to hurt her unduly was more than he'd ever been able to promise or give Martha, and it felt like an accomplishment to him. But he knew that the average woman wouldn't see this as exactly magic.

"So you're promising to be a nice guy," she summarised.

"Basically," he said, realising she was right. "Yes. Is that so bad?"

"No. And I suppose it's... well, better than..." Alesha said. "It's the second date. I've no right to..."

"Sure you do. Not that we're engaged or anything, but if we're going to get involved, then... yeah, you have the right to protect yourself."

And with these words, he realised that he was now _involved_.

And this was good. And bad. Oh, he had so many secrets to keep from her. Fortunately, she would probably understand, deep cover and all.

She nodded, and suddenly her face had run to worried. "Yeah, speaking of which..." she said.

"Speaking of...?" he asked, his bottom lip outstretched, looking for confirmation.

"Protecting myself," she whispered, just barely audible. "There's a lot I haven't told you."

Her demeanour had changed so drastically, he began to wonder if she had secrets as large as his. Maybe _she_ was in deep cover!

"Well," he said, covering all of his thoughts. "Clearly. I've got a few doozies myself. All in good time, eh?"

"Well, I've got a big one," she said. "And I feel like I have to tell you _now_ because... I mean, it might affect how... you see, I'm not... something happened a while back and you'd be well within your rights to... oh, God."

"What is it?" Her reluctance to speak was troubling indeed.

It took her a while to stop staring at the floor and begin talking again. "It's just... I've never had to tell anyone about this, since it happened," she said, fidgeting with her shirt collar. "Not in my personal life. I told the police, but that was totally different."

"Whatever it is, I'm listening."

She sighed. She leaned to the side and fished under the coffee table where she'd thrown her handbag. She reached into it and pulled out her iPhone, and handed it to the Doctor.

"Alec Merrick," she said. "Look him up."

He navigated through her internet application and found a London Times archived article about Dr. Alec Merrick, a gynaecologist who had been convicted of nine counts of sexual assault, and four counts of rape. All of his crimes had been perpetrated against his patients. He'd been sentenced to enough years in prison that he'd likely never be free, barring parole.

The Doctor didn't have to ask why she'd had him look up Dr. Merrick, her behaviour had made it obvious. Apart from giving him a protective bloodlust, the revelation made him absolutely sick. Not because of Alesha, but because once in a while, in spite of his being a great fan of humankind, one of them absolutely disgusted him, brought out a side of him that he didn't like.

But he wasn't going to blunder in with some insulting, falsely chivalrous, banal expression of moral outrage, or with an incendiary question. Instead, he looked up at Alesha for a read. She was looking, once again, at the floor.

"I take it you know this man," the Doctor said, handing her iPhone back.

She nodded, taking the gadget, putting it back in her bag.

"Did you help put him in prison?" he asked gently.

"In a manner of speaking," she said.

"I'll assume that it wasn't in your capacity as prosecutor."

She shook her head.

"Are you one of the nine, or one of the four?" he asked, again, very gently.

"I was a fifth. My charges didn't stick. It's kind of a long story. But... thought you should know," she said, a little more clipped than she might have liked.

"And you thought this might make me not want to see you anymore?" he asked.

She stared at him for a few moments, and the Doctor could see she wasn't sure how to respond. "I didn't mean to insult you," she said, finally.

He was surprised. "You haven't insulted me!" he insisted. "I just want to get my head round what you're trying to tell me. I mean, what it has to do with... us. With _this._ I'm happy to talk to you about it, I'm just not sure which tack to take."

She now stared into her teacup, which was sitting in her lap, clasped tightly in her right hand. "I was raped."

"Yes."

"So, I might not be ready to..." then her eyes shifted meaningfully to the Doctor's. She paused. "Not for quite a while."

"Oh, is that...? I see. Okay," he said.

"I _want_ to. I mean... not right this second, but... I just mean, I do... in spite of it all..." she sighed and looked up at him. He smiled softly, and waited. She seemed to gather herself and continue. "I like you. You're clever and sexy and you've got this mysterious secret life... you're like James Bond only sort of geeky."

"You're not the first person to tell me that," he said, remembering the night of Lazarus' horrible experiment.

"And you're being _so_ nice right now... I sort of want to climb you."

"That's _always_ good news."

"But I won't. I can't. It's so scary, Doctor..."

"The body is willing, the spirit is unable."

"It' just... I haven't tried yet, haven't been down that road, as it were, with anyone since. So I don't know, really, how it would go... all I know is that I can't say with any certainty that it would go well."

"Okay," he repeated. Well, perhaps it wasn't all that surprising. He'd come into this wanting exactly the thing she couldn't give just now, but he wasn't about to walk away because of that. There was too much else to be enamoured of, too many other things to admire and talk about and explore with her.

In fact, this roadblock had caused him, as roadblocks do, to take a turn, and that was brilliant. This was no longer about scratching an itch. It was about being a part of an extraordinary woman's life.

"Okay, what?" she asked.

"Just, okay. I'm okay with it."

"Really?" she asked sceptically. "What if you have to leave again in three weeks, and we haven't... yet? Wouldn't you rather spend your precious off-time with someone who can... you know, do all those things with you?"

"No, I wouldn't," he said.

"Lots of single women out there," she said. "You could have any one of them."

"Nope."

She smiled. "All right. If you say so. Might be a bumpy ride, Doctor."

"Funny, that's what _I_ usually say to people," he chuckled. "Trust me, I'm used to it. I can handle, if anything, the bumpy ride."

"You can handle the tears and setbacks? If we try, and fail, you won't take it personally?"

"Absolutely not."

"I might get you all worked up, then start weeping."

He narrowed his eyes and thought about it. "I can't guarantee that I won't do the same thing to you."

She chuckled. "What?"

"I'm sensitive."

She shook her head in amused disbelief. Then she grew serious. "Honestly. You can handle the waiting?"

"I can." He didn't say that it was because in the past, he'd been known to wait hundreds of years.

"Even though this might only be a short-term thing, and we may _never_ have sex?"

"Even though."

"Okay, I'll choose to trust you," she said. "Somehow, you inspire that in me."

"You're not the first person to tell me that either," he smirked.

* * *

The Doctor resolved not to lie to Alesha any more than he had to, but he did still feel it was necessary to omit certain facts about his life. Well, most of the facts about his life, really.

But he did say that he'd done a lot of travelling and that he was prone, as she already knew, to pull a get-up-and-go on a moment's notice. Sometimes people (women) had chosen to go with, sometimes they'd chosen to stay. He even related a few more specific stories of being forced to move on without someone he cared about, because they didn't like the life anymore or because they'd fallen ill or gone crazy or...

He said he'd been known to put loved ones in harm's way, drag them into conflicts they had no business in. And, he said meaningfully, now giving Alesha the chance to bail out, keeping secrets always took its toll. No matter how much people thought they could live with it, eventually, they'd always got frustrated and demanded to know more.

He'd left her flat shortly thereafter, noticing that it was now past two in the morning, but he was in good spirits. It looked now like his stay in London would be much longer than expected. His brooding in a far corner of the universe would just have to wait until he was finished being happy.

* * *

They saw each other every night over the next two weeks, Alesha holding her breath to hear the news that he'd be leaving soon, the Doctor holding his breath to hear her ask more about his life and his past. But it didn't come up. She seemed to understand and respect his secrecy, and didn't even ask why they never met at _his _flat.

So they went out, or spent the evening at hers. They had good food (and some bad food too), and talked about everything under the sun, and a few things beyond it. They saw a couple of films, perused several different book stores, went to a poetry reading, saw a musical and had more than a few good snogs. Each time they went to her flat, they made slightly more headway into _Anna Karenina_, but it was mostly just an excuse to retire to the sofa with some wine.

For the first time in his life, the Doctor was forging a relationship with someone _outside_ of the TARDIS. For once, he was in _her _domain, learning to do things _her _way, rather than the usual vice versa. The adventures of cinema and bookshops and theatre were rarely-held treasures for the Doctor, ones not often experienced in the outer reaches of time and space. What a novelty it was to get to know someone _before_ dragging them into the lion's den or into the line of fire.

Alesha was sexy, though, and she knew it. She didn't try to tease him with it; her attractiveness was just part of who she was. She lived in her skin very comfortably, and he was inflamed, in spite of himself. The Doctor's itch had not gone away, though he had tried to put it out of his mind. He was not made of stone, and couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before Alesha dragged _him_ into the line of fire. Even though he knew he might be shot down, he wanted to try.

* * *

On their sixteenth date, he got his answer. It was a Wednesday. They'd met up for dinner with a plan to go to her friend's football match, but after dinner, Alesha said that she was too tired. They went back to her flat, and immediately, she tossed him a corkscrew and excused herself. When she emerged, she was barefoot, and she said, "Sorry, I had to get out of those panty hose. Feel privileged not to have to wear them."

Later, after they had put _Anna_ aside and were almost finished with a bottle of Merlot, her feet were in his lap, and he massaged the high-heel-induced stress out of them, as well as her calves. Her head rested on the back of the sofa, and she hummed dreamily along with the music he'd put on.

Her outburst was both quite sudden, and quite smooth. "Doctor, would you like to make love to me?"

He looked at her with a bit of shock, and her eyes slid open, her head still resting to the side. There wasn't a touch of mischief or irony in her face – it was a legitimate question.

"You know the answer to that," he said, continuing to massage, smiling slightly.

"Tonight?"

"Any time you say."

"I say."

His hearts began to beat faster, and briefly, he wondered if she'd notice them, once they got nice and close, skin on skin. But the thought dissipated in favour of more interesting things.

"But," she said. "Tell me, so I know. I want to hear it."

"I want to make love to you," he said

She sighed and smiled, gazed at him for a long time, almost in disbelief. "I'm glad to hear you say that – very glad. And I'd like that too. But there's something I have to do first."

He smiled a little wider. "Okay."

And to his surprise, she shifted, and crawled in his lap with one knee on either side of him. She never lost eye contact with him as she peeled off the bright blue cardigan she'd been wearing and tossed it into an armchair nearby. She draped her arms over the back of the sofa and kissed him with certainty, letting her tongue dance, as it had many times, against his. He moved to put his hands on her hips, but she caught them and put them back against the sofa, leaning into the kiss.

She pulled away, and gently kissed his ear multiple times, intentionally letting him hear her breath, quite close. Meanwhile, her fingers manoeuvred his tie loose and undid his first two buttons. She pulled the collar aside and planted little kisses all over the sensitive area underneath. She even snaked her tongue outside of her mouth and licked the flesh, eliciting another groan from him. His head fell back against the sofa, a smile having formed on his face. She took this opportunity to attack the rest of his neck with nips and kisses, running one hand through his hair and massaging his scalp.

She leaned back away from him, and she unbuttoned her own black blouse, and he watched, struggling to keep his breathing steady. She shrugged it off, and it joined the blue cardigan in the chair. He ran his fingers over the tops of her breasts, the smooth, round part visible above the black lace bra she was wearing. She gently took his hand and put it aside, and she whispered, "No." Then she smiled, as he gazed at her with understanding bemusement, but not frustration.

She leaned forward and brought her lips very close to his ear. "Tell me you want me," she whispered, panting just a little bit, just enough.

"I want you," he whispered back.

"How much?" she asked, reaching down to feel the bulge she'd noticed forming over the last few minutes.

She squeezed it through his trousers and it stiffened even more against her hand. He slid his eyes closed, and he moaned, "That much."

Very gently, very slowly, she unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and worked his member loose from inside. She sat back on his knees and stroked him, letting the fingers of both hands slip over the distended flesh. She let the feel of _maleness _make her desirous, allowed herself to want it again. The length of it, the warmth, the hardness felt good between her fingers, and she found herself warming very much to it. Very, very much. The time was now.

His eyes were shut as he fell deeper and deeper into the pleasure, deeper under Alesha's spell.

"Want me to stop?" she asked softly.

"No," he whispered, entranced. "Please don't stop."

With one hand, she pulled the ribbon loose on her grey wraparound skirt, and pulled the garment away from her body, adding it to the growing pile of clothes in the chair. The only thing between him and her now was a thin piece of black lace, a pair of expensive underwear covering, but not concealing, Alesha's nether regions. She reached down and pushed it aside, and rose up on her knees, and when she came back down, he was inside her.

For a few moments they were very still. She let the feeling wash over her, this, the simplest of pleasures. The purest and most primal, the sensation of interlocking with another body, of the climbing ecstasy, of being filled. It is one of the most _needed, _most craved feelings in the entire repertoire of human experience, one of the elements of life that can keep us in touch with who we are and where we come from.

And to think she had been dreading this moment for months on end, because it was something that had been taken away from her, marred, she thought, forever, in order to satisfy someone else's selfishness. She'd thought making love would be a _process_, like wading into a cold pool, where the shock drives one back out of the water at first. She'd thought the first time back would be tearful, fraught with images and memories and feelings she didn't want but couldn't shake.

But no. Not now. Something had been taken, but now given back to her. Something deeply hidden and long-forgotten had returned, to remind her and inhabit her body.

As she began to move on him, she opened her eyes to find the Doctor watching her. The look on his face was one of urgency and desire, pleasure at watching her, boiling from being buried inside her. And she knew now that she was in control. Of everything. Of her body, of her surroundings, her situation and her emotions. She pressed everything she had down on him, into him, around him, and then did it again. The hardness inside her drove to her core and caused her whole being to hum, pulse, light up with electricity. They both groaned as she repeated, repeated, repeated the insistent clinging, grinding. She didn't make large movements, just deep, perfect ones that kept the pleasure alive and bodies with no light in-between.

She felt the explosion rising within and knew perfectly that if she could get there, she could get anywhere after that. She felt she could expel all of the bile, all of the hang-ups she'd collected over the past months, and find a new lease on love and sex and humanity. She gripped the back of his head, burying her hands in his hair. She gently tugged at it, and he let her force his head back. Her forearms dug into his shoulders, her eyes dug into his eyes, she gritted her teeth, and all at once, she let go. She threw her head back involuntarily and let out one short, intense cry as release flowed through her like silken shockwaves.

The Doctor had been on the rise himself when Alesha's moment had come, and as it had, her whole body trembled, and her insides pulsed. Her orgasm tugged at him just right, in every way, and set him on the brink. As she had, he began to grit his teeth, and resisted the urge to grab hold of her. He knew he had to wait for that. So he dug his fingernails into the sofa cushions and braced himself. She smiled at him, did not stop her circular grinding movements, but he could see a little bit of perspiration now forming at her hairline and across her jaw. She was biting her lower lip and panting properly now, spent from the exertion and pleasure... and he was ready to blow.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked him breathlessly.

"You," he hissed back. "Tell me it's okay." He was shaking. Holding back was jarring his system.

"It's okay," she said, taking his face in her hands, with a driving urgency concentrated to a razor-like whisper. "I'm ready for it – do it now."

Now it was his turn. He stopped trembling and in exchange, began to convulse with pleasure as he released into her. He let out a crackling groan, and seemed to come in tide after tide of liquid intoxication, for ages. She pressed her tongue into his mouth once again, and her grip, her kiss brought him down, until his head was swimming with the euphoria and the taste and smell of her.

Through half-closed eyes and a low tone, she asked, "Still want to?"

"Oh, yes."

"Even now?"

"Especially now."

"Well, now you can."

* * *

She was exquisite in black lace, and her sigh was music. She was perfect to his eyes and ears. She was, if possible, more beautiful and brilliant in the dark than in the light. Her body clung to him, gripped him in every way. _She_ was gripping, just a riveting woman. Always, but more so after that night.

They'd lit a lavender scented candle and shut the world out of her bedroom, and the Doctor felt a little like he was in his own home. Like in the TARDIS, he could have been anywhere, could have opened the door upon the surface of one of the moons of Sanduvega 17, or atop a cliff in South America, or upon the depths of space itself, and it wouldn't have mattered. They existed in their own little world where all that was important was grasping and pleasure.

She'd sighed, and lain back, looking up at him with fire in her eyes. It was a calm that he recognised she'd not felt in quite a while, a kind of submission she'd had to earn back from herself, for herself. He put his hands on her, his lips on her, his teeth and tongue, his whole body, and she relinquished control. He touched her all over, kissed parts of her that she'd forgotten felt good. He was around her, inside her, he whispered to her, watched her swim in pleasure and release.

And he was in trouble.

He'd known it for a couple of weeks, but he felt it for sure as he heard her breathing steady and she slipped off to sleep against his shoulder. He'd begun this little journey because he was all randy and pining. He'd decided to stay in it because he'd managed to find someone intriguing in a non-fantasy-related way, but who appealed to his... sense of the past. But now he was in it up to his neck. They'd spent weeks together. He'd met a couple of her friends. They had _made love_, not just had a good, long shag... and now she was asleep against his naked body, and he liked it. He actually didn't want this moment to end.

Yep. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

There was a blue box waiting for him in a park nearby, and a universe full of turmoil. He couldn't just stay here forever.

Two more hours until sunrise. He'd have to decide what to do before the alarm went off and Alesha's day went off and running...

* * *

And when the alarm went off, he still hadn't decided. He knew she understood (or thought she did) why someday he'd eventually have to get up and go, but that didn't make it any easier. The longer he stayed here, he knew, the harder it would be for both of them when he left. He began to wonder if, in fact, he would eventually realise he _couldn't _leave her.

And so he didn't sleep, for fear that someday, he'd forget how it felt to be with her.

He could, of course, sense time. He'd turned off the alarm just after she'd fallen asleep, not wanting a blaring electronic noise to be the first thing she heard in the morning. Instead, he waited until one minute before six, then woke her gently.

They kissed and cooed for a bit before getting up, then reluctantly she headed for the shower and he made some coffee while still in his underwear. He took an undue amount of glee in this act.

* * *

He spent most of the day away from the TARDIS, going over his options in his mind. If he stayed any longer, he'd grow attached and would almost certainly have to ask her to come with him. He could show her the universe, but first he'd have to convince her he wasn't mental. If he left tomorrow, it would be heartbreaking, and would look very much like he'd only waited to sleep with her, then split. Even if they kept in touch, eventually, she'd date someone, he'd find a new companion and... well, he wasn't someone who got over lost loves quickly.

At dinner, Alesha suggested that they do something that neither of them had ever done before. The Doctor could think of a planet or two he'd never visited… but she said she'd always wondered about those indoor rock climbing gyms, places where they have funny-shaped walls with places to put your feet and harnesses to keep you from falling.

"Okay," he shrugged.

"It's either that or swing dancing," she said.

"Doesn't matter," he told her. "I'll look equally daft either way."

Inside, he was wondering what the hell he would wear to something like that. It had been several years since he'd worn anything other than a suit or pyjamas (or an orange spacesuit). He reckoned he might be able to scare up something climbing-appropriate…

He asked her to give him an hour, and then meet him at the climbing gym.

* * *

"You own jeans?" she asked as they set their things down in the lobby. "And a tee-shirt? Good God."

"Well, yeah," he said. "I own one of everything, really."

"I like it," she said, touching the red t-shirt he'd pulled on solely because it was the first non-ridiculous article of clothing he found in the auxiliary wardrobe. The shirt had a drawing of a Great White, and said _Shark Week_ in bold black letters. "I've only ever seen you in a suit. Well, and… of course, _out of_ your suit."

He smiled as he searched her sheepish little face. "You just made _yourself _blush! That's got to be a first!"

"Can we go back to talking about your wardrobe?"

"Well, I guess you could say I go through phases with what I like to wear. You just say the word, and I'll drag out the orange plaid tuxedo jacket in a flash."

"Yikes. Why don't you just keep that one to yourself, and I'll just enjoy you in denim. Also, I'll be pretending like you never said that."

He chuckled at this as they found their way to the counter. He paid the clerk and they were shown to the back of the facility where the beginner's wall was located. Rules dictated that they start here and master the "easy" climb before they move on to the harder stuff.

A boy and his father were using the wall, and the Doctor and Alesha were obliged to wait for a few minutes. The child was perhaps ten years old, and was yelling various things to get attention. "Look at me, dad! My foot slipped! Whoa, did you see that? Look what I can do!"

"Jeremy, stop that!" his father called out to him. "You're going to fall."

"No I won't! It's double reinforced, they said so."

The father replied, "Yes, the ropes are double reinforced. But if you unlatch them from each other, there's nothing to hold you up, double reinforced or not, so stop undoing your harness, you daft child."

"You mean like this?" little Jeremy asked cheekily, just before he fell fifty feet, landing on the hard mat at the Doctor's feet. His head hit the surface like a ton of bricks, and the kid was out cold. His leg was twisted halfway round grotesquely.

"Oh my God!" Alesha cried out.

The father was above, screaming for the staff to let him down to the floor.

"It's okay, it's okay," the Doctor said, instinctively trying to shield her from the sight of Jeremy's disgusting broken bone.

She stepped around him, barely even having registered his words or movements. She got to her knees at the boy's side. The father touched down and frantically bent near her, and attempted to pick up his son.

"Don't move him, sir," she said. "If he's got a neck injury, it would be the worst thing you could do."

The Doctor watched in wonder as she put her hands on the boy's leg and felt gingerly with the tips of her fingers. "It's broken in at least two places," she announced. She put her fingers then on Jeremy's eyelids and pulled up, examining the irises, pupils and whites underneath. "Concussion. We're going to need a cold compress."

"I'm on it," one of the staff said, running for a door marked _personnel._

"Has someone called for an ambulance?" she asked.

Another staff member whipped out a phone and dialled.

"Tell them to make sure and bring an orthopaedics gurney as well as restraints."

"Why restraints?" asked the father, his face twisted in sympathy pains.

"Because it's not good for a head-injury victim to remain unconscious – he could slip into a coma," she said. "So we have to bring him round, but when we do… he's going to be in a mighty lot of pain. He'll need restraints until they can get some morphine in him."

"Oh, God," the father groaned. Tears were in his eyes.

"Jeremy?" she said loudly to the patient. "Jeremy can you hear me? If you can hear me, move your left hand."

There was no sign.

"Are you sure you have to wake him?"

"Yes. If there's no bleeding to release the pressure, then he could be sustaining brain damage as we speak." She once more called out to Jeremy, to see if he could hear her voice.

"Oh God, oh God," the dad cried once more. "You've got to help him, please!"

"He's going to be fine, sir, you just have to let me do my job. Doctor, will you please give me my handbag?"

The Doctor didn't move – he was too stunned. He stood with his mouth gaping, unable to respond to her.

She looked up at him, and their eyes met. She sighed, and her eyes filled with sadness. "Please."

He turned back to where they had put down their belongings and grabbed the black leather bag she'd brought with her. He handed it to her. As she dug around inside, he squatted down next to her, and whispered, "You've really got some explaining to do."

"I know," she whispered back.

To his amazement, she extracted a stethoscope from her bag. She listened to his vitals and announced that something was obstructing his breathing. The Doctor took the boy and sat him upright, while his companion rooted around in her bag once more. She came up with a vial of white powder, removed the cap and placed it under Jeremy's nose. Immediately, the boy came to, screaming.

She and Doctor and the father did their best to restrain the child, keep him from twitching about too much and worsening the condition of his broken leg. It was clear the child was in great pain, and it hurt all of the nearby adults to hear him cry so.

When the ambulance arrived mercifully, she spoke expertly to the paramedics. She'd seen him fall, had treated him at the scene, and clearly knew what she was talking about, so the paramedics asked her to follow them to the hospital. She began to go with them.

"Oi," the Doctor said.

She turned.

"The TARDIS is in the play park around the corner from… Alesha's flat."

"Okay," she said. "I'll meet you there as soon as I'm done."

* * *

When the squeaky door opened two and a half hours later, the Doctor was sitting with his feet up. She came up the ramp and stood with her hands in her pockets. "Got your suit back."

"Yeah. I'm not a fan of Shark Week – I find it alarmist. And denim is constrictive."

"Interesting reasoning for wardrobe choices," she said, smiling.

"How's Jeremy?"

"Fine," she said. "Knocked out on painkillers for the next decade or so. How about you?"

"I'm…" he stalled.

"Confused, I'd imagine."

"Yeah, sort of," he admitted.

"Doctor, I'm sorry. Especially…" now it was her turn to stall out.

"Especially what?"

"Especially for last night. I kind of used you."

He stood up and started to walk round the console toward her. "Yeah, I guess you did. But I don't really mind."

"I'd honestly intended for it never to get to that point."

"You were planning never to sleep with me?"

"Yes. I knew, in light of things, it would be really, really wrong. But I'd been playing a character for so long, I'd started to wonder if I'd be able to settle into eternal life as Alesha Phillips. But you… you'd made me feel like Martha Jones again. And you know what? Martha Jones, she loves the Doctor. I couldn't take it anymore, being with you, seeing that you wanted me… it was like betraying my real self."

"So the stuff about Merrick, was that just an excuse not to…?"

She took a huge, deep, shaky breath, and let it out. "That, unfortunately, is true. It happened six months ago, seven or eight weeks after I arrived at the CPS."

"God, Martha," he groaned, pulling his hand down over his face.

"But don't you see? You went a long way light night in helping me get past it! I never thought I'd be able to… you know? Ever again. With you, there was an opportunity for healing."

"Don't you have a husband who could have helped you… heal?" he asked, a little more harshly than he meant. He knew he was coming off as confrontational, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

"Mickey's gone," she said, wringing her hands.

"Do you mean… he's not…"

"He's alive. But he witnessed an intergalactic crime committed by the Wodnuricki Tribe from the 4th Pudnolov galaxy."

"Whoa. They are nasty business."

"Yep. The High Priest sent his goons after Mickey in a big way, almost blew his head off in his sleep. It's only because our dog barked that we survived. So UNIT agreed to put Mickey in a kind of witness relocation program, in exchange for my doing this infiltration of the CPS for them."

"Are you sure he's safe? The Wodnuricki can track him anywhere in the universe."

"That's why he's in a different universe," she said, sadly. "Gee, now I know how you've felt all these years."

He sighed. "Is he back in Pete's World?"

"No, the Wodnuricki know he has ties there, so UNIT chose a different one. But that's why it had to be UNIT. We tried to go to Torchwood first, of course, but they've all but disappeared off the map, which is highly concerning to me… but that's a whole different story. So… there it is. And unless and until the entire tribe can be wiped out in Mickey's lifetime, he can't come back. And that's, as they say, not bloody likely."

"You could go be with him after this is over."

"Yeah, that's why I'm so angry with UNIT. The Wodnuricki know I'm Mickey's wife, but UNIT kept me here and wouldn't let me go… which means…"

"The tribe is tracking you."

"Right. And they'll follow me straight to Mickey. So, he and I agreed…"

"To get on with your lives?"

"Yeah," she told him, averting her eyes. "If we have the chance to see each other again, then so be it. If not, then at least we won't have wasted our time waiting for each other."

The Doctor exhaled loudly. "UNIT wankers. What do they want with the CPS?"

"There's a Andulotus Beast working as a Crown Prosecutor," she reported, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, Andulotus, they're very, very patient," said the Doctor.

"No kidding. UNIT suspect that its overarching goal is to take over the justice system insidiously, possibly by getting in judges' pockets, that sort of thing. UNIT had its scent, as it were, but couldn't work out who it was. They'd sent in someone before me, but she cracked under the pressure after three weeks. They were needing someone with long-term field experience. And then, _voilà_, I turn back up, desperately needed their help."

"Bastards."

"They don't exist to make us all feel warm and fuzzy, Doctor," she said. "They exist to keep aliens from doing nasty things to our planet."

"Why didn't they call me?" he asked.

"Good question. I don't know. I guess it's the long-term nature of it. Maybe?"

"Does anyone at the CPS know you're not really a lawyer?"

"James. That's it. That's why they put me with him, because he's the best, he can support someone who's absolutely clueless, like me. I'm a doctor, not a lawyer, and he can work with me anyway. But even he's been giving me more stuff to do – says I'm a quick study."

"I recall thinking that, myself," he smiled, and she smiled back, and for a moment, it was like old times. "Why don't you let me help you with the Andulotus Beast so you can get back to being a doctor? Or whatever you want to be."

She shrugged. "I'll let you help, but I've got nothing to get back to. James and the CPS have been my life. I don't want to stay with UNIT, I don't have Mickey, and Torchwood's gone kaputt."

"Well," he said, crossing his arms, leaning against the console. "You have me."

She smiled. "I suppose I do."

**END**


End file.
